


855-7019

by sabrina



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-12-03
Updated: 2002-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-07 09:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabrina/pseuds/sabrina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike's thoughts after Buffy and Riley leave his crypt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	855-7019

**Author's Note:**

> _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_/ S6 'As you were'

_'Tell me that you need me.' _

'I always need you.'

'Tell me that you want me.'

'I always want you.'

The heavy metal door slammed back against the stone frame with a thud that resounded through the crypt and caused the bottle of brandy resting on the edge of the sarcophagus to teeter slightly and then stabilize itself. The vampire stared at the door blankly, his face emotionless, his body rigid. Every muscle was tightened and the tenseness in his body could be seen throughout every tautly drawn surface of his skin.

The silence that descended after the thundering echo the closing door had created was deafening. 'The silence of the dead,' Spike thought bitterly. He opened and closed his fists, tightening them until his already pale knuckles turned white with the pressure. Crossing the room, he picked up the brandy bottle and took a swig, running his hand over his mouth as he sat the bottle back down. Alone again

The dark glass hit the stone of the sarcophagus harder than Spike had intended and the bottle shattered against the marble, the final contents of the bottle leaking over the jagged edges of glass and down the sides of the stone. The sharp-edged fragments of glass sliced into his hand and he drew back out of habit. Not that the shredded skin upon his hand could match the pain that emanated from his shredded heart. He swallowed and a choked sob escaped his lips, echoing against the cold walls of his home.

Dropping to his knees, he ignored the insignificantly tiny puddles of brandy on the floor and the escaped shards that threatened to slice through the fabric of his dark jeans. He closed his eyes tightly; acutely aware of the salty tears seeping between the eyelids slammed down uselessly, moistening his cheeks and betraying his heart to anyone who might care enough to look.

Not that there was anyone who did.

On those nights when he would sense Buffy, his lady of light, the one he would change anything to please, walking towards his crypt it was as if he could feel his heart quicken. If he were alive-if his heart had worked as the other muscles in his body did-it would have sped up. And every time the door flew open, he couldn't help but pray that this night would be the night she told him in words.

And every night they danced the same dance

back and forth  
round and round  
no words  
only movement  
only touch

She'd made it very clear that's how it had to be. Some nights it was only pain and bondage. It's what she begged him for and what she dished out to him. A dance he'd learned long ago out of years of being with Drusilla. His Dark Queen had loved playing out such scenarios: Angelus had taught her well and she'd been a sharp learner, taking her lessons even beyond Angel's keen tutorage. For a century, Spike had believed none but Drusilla could have wished such dark, dangerous games.

His lady of light had shown him to be terribly mistaken.

Perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised. Buffy had dished out violence for five years to every type of demon, vampire, and night creature that dared cross her path. She was used to the bruises, the pain, the fighting. She walked through the darkness every night. It was liable to rub off on you, taint you. And perhaps she needed the pain to fight.

Pain and bondage.

Then there were those nights when he entered her and he could hear the whispers her body shared with his. The truth he wanted her to say aloud: that she longed for him with every inch of her being: that she needed him as badly as he needed her: that she believed in him, trusted him, loved him, desired him. But when the music stopped, when the dance was over, she would pick up her dance card and leave him as wordlessly as she had arrived, and he'd be left clinging to the promise he pulled from her touch. For all its physicality more intangible than a cloud: impossible to hold in one's hand-or one's heart.

His face was moist from the tears. Had he been able to see his reflection, he knew his cheeks would have glistened from the moisture. He had not been alive so long that he had forgotten the tears. Tears he had not cried since the night he had met Dru in the alleyway over a century ago. Tears that were painfully human and reminded him more excruciatingly of the pathetic poet he'd left behind long ago.

It was a side of himself that he'd ran from upon becoming a vampire. It was easy to do when Dru adored him. He'd used deliberate torture, murder, and recklessness, to prove his abilities time and time again-and with those abilities came a reputation of cruel flippancy. And while he knew nothing of William's soul remained in him now, William's insecurities lingered annoyingly in the back of his mind. Suppressed for over a hundred years, since Angel had returned and Drusilla had left him, they'd been rising steadily to the surface. Within the last few weeks they had rushed back in with a force that had surprised him.

Straightening his back, Spike raised his head and set his teeth together. He stood, pulling a dark t-shirt off of the sarcophagi he and Buffy had laid across earlier and wiping it over his face, over his cheeks, patting his eyes dry. Ever since he had begun trying to win Buffy's heart, he had tried to be as light as she-as good as she-and tonight he had failed utterly. He'd done a favor for a friend-he hadn't asked questions on purpose, not wanting to know-and it had blown up, quite literally, in his face.

If he'd known what it was, he'd have never taken the eggs, but the pal was giving him a bit extra for having a place to keep the things and he hadn't seen anything wrong with that. A bit extra meant he could get Buffy something special, and he wanted to do that.

Pulling the shirt over his head he reached down and pulled the leather jacket off of the floor where it had fallen earlier. Slipping it over his shoulders, he straightened and walked out of the crypt. Buffy and soldier boy were long gone. She'd acted shocked and surprised and marched out self-righteously with that prat. Maybe she'd forgotten the reason Mr. Holier than Thou left, but Spike hadn't. His fists tightened as anger rushed over him in a flood.

Stalking out of the cemetery, his boots flattened the grass underneath his soles. He was a _vampire_, he was supposed to do evil things every once in a while-something he nearly never did anymore. Soldier boy was a 'good' guy, he wasn't supposed to do the things he'd done. Knuckles whitened again as Spike tightened his fists. They were angry with him because he was _evil_ when he did something they considered wrong, but they slid over soldier boy's bloody fuckups because he was _good_! The irony of it would have made Spike laugh if it hadn't stabbed his heart so fiercely.

Spike stopped at the convenience store across from the cemetery and walked into the phone booth. Slipping a coin into the pay phone he dialed her number. He was certain she wouldn't be there.

She wasn't.

Three rings later he heard her voice on the answering machine: 'Hey! Glad you called, sorry we missed you! Leave a message! Thanks.'

He slammed the receiver back into the cradle and leaned his head up against the cool glass of the booth. The smooth cold surface against his forehead served to bring the reality of the evening crashing back down upon him.

_She'll be back_. He told himself. _She always is_. As much as she might speak against it, as much as she might want no one to know that the two of them were shagging, as much as she told him that he was wrong-_he_ was fucked up-it was wrong of her to be with him, Spike knew that she'd be back. Her words might say that she could live without him, but her actions suggested otherwise.

She'd return repentant and with words of acceptance on her lips. She'd let him back into her and he'd touch her tenderly and undress her with gentleness and they'd make love-truly make love-for the first time since he'd began to dream of her what seemed like ages ago. And at the end, she'd turn to him and whisper the words he longed to hear her say: _'I love you Spike.' _

_'Brilliant Spike, bloody brilliant.'_ He slammed his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of camels. With a graceful flick of his wrist, he pulled out a single fag and lit it using the lighter in his chest pocket. Putting it to his lips he took a long drag and exhaled sending mini-clouds of smoke up into the night sky. _'In your dreams, mate. In your dreams only.'_

The sarcasm kept him from admitting that some part of him would never let go of that picture, played over and over in his dreams at night. A dream of a day when she would accept him and _Buffy_ would reach for him. Not because she was lonely or numb or confused, but because she wanted _him._

He believed so strongly in that dream that at times he wondered if it was not a vision like Dru's instead of a mere dream.

He was willing to wait. She'd been hurting. She'd been surrounded by light only to be pulled back into the darkness. She'd been in a bright world only to be forced back into a living hell. Perhaps she was right about him. Try as he might, he could not be sorry that she was back living in the darkness with him. Perhaps that made him evil and selfish, but he could not help thanking whatever powers that be for the second chance with her. She was angry, she was confused, not at him, but he could take her anger, her confusion, her hatred-neutralize and soften it. And someday...

Every night she'd been away, he had saved her over and over. And every night she still needed saving. He could do that. He could carry her pain and sadness if she'd only let him.

He took another drag on the cigarette and picked up the phone again. He dialed the number deliberately and waited through the rings for that familiar voice. She would be angry that he called. She'd complain again about how she didn't want her friends to know about them. But in the end she'd reach for him again. Because whether or not she knew it, she needed him.

And he needed to believe that.

'Buffy, I'm sorry. You know where to find me.'

He replaced the phone on the cradle and stepped out of the phone booth, dropping the cigarette on the pavement outside. He flattened the butt with his right toe and then stepped out across the parking lot and headed back towards his crypt. He needed to clean up the Slayer's mess. And he would.

He believed in that girl, his princess of light. He'd believe in her till the end of the world and someday he was certain, his belief would be proven. Maybe even tonight.

So that last was a lie and he knew it. But he'd carry on as if it wasn't.

Every night he'd believe in her.

Every night he'd save her.

Every night he'd love her... Forever.


End file.
